


Two Wrongs, One Right (at a cost)

by all_their_intricacies



Category: Tenet (2020)
Genre: Angst, Attempt at Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, POV Second Person, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:01:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26542603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_their_intricacies/pseuds/all_their_intricacies
Summary: So, imagine: the man you're absolutely in love with already has someone else in his life. Or, at least, you think he does.
Relationships: Neil/The Protagonist (Tenet)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 189





	Two Wrongs, One Right (at a cost)

**Author's Note:**

> for [cutekitten6](cutekitten6.tumblr.com) on tumblr, who sent me [an ask](https://iamtheprotagoneil.tumblr.com/post/629791905168932864/yknow-what-ive-been-thinking-of-if-neil-was-ever) about neil's question about kat at the end, which somehow spurred this entire thing on. you can thank her for this.
> 
> edit (30/9/2020): i fixed that part at the end where neil inverted for the sator mission to match the inversion science lmao. was a big yikes for me there, gang. i promise my later fics will be in accordance with canon science 😆

So, imagine: the man you’re absolutely in love with already has someone else in his life. Or, at least, you think he does.

Imagine: you’re on your way to his office to give him the report of the last mission you went on. It was a rousing success, flushing your body with adrenaline still as you go through the details of it again in your head. That, in addition to the thought of seeing _him_ again, has you almost buzzing with overflowing energy as you knock on his door, and wait.

He opens up in just a second, greeting you with an easy smile – the same one he always greets you with; that, you think, is reserved especially for you – and invites you in. You smile in return – unable to help it, in fact – as you sit down on the chair on the other side of his desk, and begin to recount the mission details to him.

It’s routine, of course, something you’ve done countless of times before – both during your time with Tenet and MI6. Still, he seems to hang onto every word you say – that you’ve practiced saying to him on the way here. It’s an intoxicating feeling, to have his entire attention focused solely on you like this, and you don’t want it to end.

You know it has to, though; there is no other reasons for you to remain here except for the ones you’re not yet ready to say out loud.

“You can find the rest of the details in here,” you say, only allowing the tiniest bit of regret to bleed into your voice, as you stand and hand him the written version of your report. You make the mistake of leaning in too close – or, perhaps, it’s on purpose because you’re just a fiend for self-torture – and the shade of brown that makes up his eyes are so brilliant that you feel yourself getting flustered a little.

You shift your eyes away – like an awkward teenage girl with a crush – and that’s when you see it. Sitting atop his desk is an opened file, containing a very lengthy report alongside a picture of a blonde woman walking on the sidewalk with, presumably, her son. You don’t mean to read into the details of it, but your days in university and your training with MI6 have embedded in you a certain level of reading comprehension and information retention. Even with just a quick glance, you can make out something about a new flat and a change of schools.

“You going on a mission?” you ask, keeping your tone light as you stand up straight. You shift your eyes from the documents then back to him, smiling curiously as you await an answer.

“Oh, no,” he says, following where your eyes have gone to. He carefully puts down your report at the right corner of his desk, before reaching out to close the file in question. “This is just... recon.”

He looks up at you then, a strange smile on his lips that only serves to make you even _more_ curious. Something in it tells you there’s more to the story – a secret meaning that you can’t quite catch. An inside joke that you’re not entirely privy to. You’d feel more on edge about it – about having a mystery that you aren’t getting a clue to – but instead, you just feel a sense of serenity; familiarity.

It's one of the reasons you’re so utterly in love with him. Or, perhaps, it is the effect.

Usually, you’d just let it go; accept that he holds information about the world, about you – about any other Tenet agents, in fact – that is just beyond your grasp. It is how he lives up to his role as The Protagonist of the story, after all. There’s rarely a point to playing catch-up with him.

Only, this time, you want to pry. You know it’s not your place to, but you _want_ to. Your curiosity has always been tamed by self-preservation, but his smile urges you on. The glint in his eyes promises you _more_ , and you want it. You want to know more about this piece of information of his private life – and you don’t doubt that it’s private; _‘just... recon’_ sounds so dubious that he must have come up with it on the spot – that he had let slipped in _your_ presence.

In the end, though, you don’t ask him about it – or more than you already did, that is. It’s less self-preservation winning against curiosity, but rather the appeal of a challenge. You’re certain that he wouldn’t give you any more information on it, if he’d already chosen to lie in the first place. Besides, you prefer to solve mysteries on your own anyways, and you know he prefers it when you come to him with solutions rather than questions.

(“You don’t drink on the job,” you said once, sitting next to him at a bar near the New York base.

“You sound sure of that,” he replied, eyes glinting under the dimmed lights overhead, looking so gorgeous in his disheveled suit that you almost threw self-control out of the door and crossed the distance between you to steal a kiss from him.

Instead, you took another sip of your vodka tonic, and gave him a smug smile. “I am,” you said, without the slightest doubt in your voice. “I’ve had, what? Three missions with you now? I’ve never seen you order anything with alcohol during any of those missions. Maybe after, when we were celebrating, but never during.”

“Maybe I just prefer Diet Coke.”

“No, you don’t,” you chimed in quickly, smug still, almost missing the flash of _something_ over his eyes at your statement. You don’t mention it, though, instead adding it to a box labeled with his name that resides at the back of your mind, for another day. “You would have ordered it now—instead of that whiskey you have in your hand—if you did.”

The smile on his face was a mix of bashfulness and commendation, and it makes you feel like you’ve won the moon itself, that night, rather than just the tiniest glimpse into who he was.)

So, you smile, accepting that challenge, and excuse yourself from his office. He stands to see you out – like he always does – placing a hand on your shoulder as he opens the door for you. He bids you a goodbye, and urges you to get that rest he knows the ME had recommended you with (that he knows you have all the intentions to ignore because you have things that you’ve deemed better to do).

You go through the rest of your post-mission routine with practiced ease, though with a bit of a drag because you are, admittedly, tired. The adrenaline has finally run off as you gather up your things from the locker room to return to your flat. Still, the whole time, the thought of that challenge never leaves your mind.

You mull over it for the next few days, but come up empty every time. You try to keep an ear out for a _recon_ mission involving a woman and a child from other agents (because even in an organization with secrecy and impersonality engraved in its policy like Tenet, people still gossip, albeit in coded terms), but nothing ever turns up. In the end, you result to speculations with barely any proof to back it up.

It leads you to quite a dreadful conclusion, but one that makes more sense than you’re willing to admit. That it’s something personal. If the woman and the child aren’t involved a mission – ongoing or otherwise – then he must have ordered that _recon_ on them for personal reasons. They could have been someone close to him. They could have been friends, friends of a friend, or... well, _something more_.

The thought – the _implication_ – of it makes your heart sink. You feel like someone has wrapped their claws around your throat and squeezed, pulling the air out from your lungs, making your vision go blurry. You go through your days and try not to think of it, but it’s always there – always at the back of your mind where you have so willingly put it – scratching and calling for your attention.

Luckily for you, though, your next mission comes, serving as good of a distraction as you could ever ask for. You pull through it with a bit of effort, and before you could even touch base, you’re transported to another location for your next mission. Then the next; then another one. It keeps coming, and you barely have the time to take a breather, or just to get a full night of rest, let alone to think about anything other than what’s ahead of you.

Then, just as suddenly and frantically as it’s come, everything pulls to an abrupt halt over two months later.

Imagine: you’re on your way back from a two-week long mission with more than a few scrapes and cuts on your body. The memory of it – of having lost a teammate – still clings to your mind, leaving you drained and defeated despite the success that it was.

(It’s not the first time you’ve lost a teammate in the field, of course, but it’s never an easy thing to deal with, not something you can just get used to with frequency. If anything, it’s quite the opposite.)

You drag your feet all the way up to your flat, relief to see the familiar door and number (whose familiarity you’re losing because of how little time you’ve spent here over the last month or so). It’s a surprise, when you find him in your kitchen, standing with his hips leaned against the counter as he waits for the kettle to boil.

You _should_ feel more on edge about having an intruder in your home, but as it’s already been established, your feeling for _this_ particular intruder rarely strays from that of serenity. If anything, you just feel at ease, relieved even more, to have him here when your mind is determined to take you to places you’d rather leave in the past.

He looks up when he hears you approach, the easy smile once again settled on his lips as he greets you. The warmth taking over your heart feels like wildfire, taking down all the exhaustion blocking its path. You smile back – unable to help it, in fact, no matter how tired you’re feeling – and ask him what he’s doing here.

“Heard about your mission,” he says with a shrug, “I thought you might want some company.”

You didn’t, but now that he’s here, you can’t imagine turning him away for any reason. And, well, there’s also that _want_ within you – desired tamed by self-control that is slipping more and more. You find yourself, right at that moment, wanting more than just this easy companionship between you.

The first move is made before you can think too much about it. One step forward, then another, then you’re in his space and he doesn’t move away. You lean down and press a kiss to his lips – light, gentle, testing the water – and he still doesn’t move away. You press down harder, more eager now, and that’s when he moves.

He puts a hand to your chest, lightly pushing you away. His eyes aren’t meeting yours as he puts more distance between you two. Your heart takes a dive right down to the pit of your stomach, you scramble to apologize; only, he doesn’t let you.

“No, it’s—it’s fine,” he says, quickly, then winces at how awkward the words land between you. “I mean,” he sighs, pursing his lips as he looks for a better way to put this – to let you down easy, maybe. When he finally looks at you, his eyes are soft with a melancholic tinge to it. “It’s not that I don’t want this. It’s just— you’re upset. Right now. I don’t want this to be something you’d later look back on as a mistake—”

“I won’t,” you cut in, as soon as you register his words. _He wants this_ , is all that swimming through your mind; is all that matters. “I want this, too. I’ve wanted this,” you move in again, pushing against the hand on your chest to cut short the distance separating you from him, and rest your forehead against his, “for a very long time.”

You kiss him again, and this time, he doesn’t move away, doesn’t just stand there with barely a reaction. No, this time, he kisses _back_. It’s as thrilling as you’ve imagined it. All thoughts of anything else that isn’t _him_ evaporate from your mind. All that exhaustion, dread, and weariness flush right out of your body as one of his hand touches your hip, while the other finds a place on your cheek.

When you separate – only because biology demands it of you – his hands are still on you, holding grounded in this moment, in this place, this reality. “Okay,” he says, quiet, breathless, barely a question but you still give him your confirmation.

“Okay.”

Distantly, your mind is screaming something about a woman and a child, but you can pay it no mind. It’s only speculations, after all – a conclusion that you had no solid proof to back up. So, you let yourself melt into his next kiss, his touch, his _warmth_. You let him move you to the bed, let him push you down, move in between your legs and show you what that heaven you’ve heard so much about actually feel like.

Now, imagine: the man you’re absolutely in love with is unfaithful to you. Or, at least, you think he is.

Imagine: you’re on your way – this is just starting to sound like an opening to a very terrible joke now, isn’t it? – to his office to pick him up for your date tonight. It’s nothing fancy, just a nice restaurant that you had meticulously picked out both for their privacy and impressive menu.

You’re just about to round the corner when you hear voices coming from his office. You halt in your step before you can think about it, having recognized the voice that is speaking.

“She’s going to be fine, I think,” the voice in question says – that you know belongs to another agent you’ve been on missions with a few times, _Ives_. You’ve only had _one_ memorable interaction with him, that didn’t revolve around whatever mission you two were assigned on. It was a short conversation that _he_ prompted, and left you quite confused afterwards.

(“How’s your lock-picking?” Ives asked, very suddenly, as he came to stand next to you on the transport ship, eyes following yours to gaze at the horizon.

The question gave you pause as you didn’t remember any part in the mission briefing earlier that specifically required a good lock-picker. Still, you bit down on your perplexity and turned to look at your team leader.

“Um,” you replied, slightly unsure. “It’s alright, I think.”

“Hm,” Ives intoned, still not looking at you. The breathing mask over his face barely left any clue to his expression, but he was always known for being as impassive as any Tenet agent should be (secretive, impersonal, the work). “You should get more practice, then.”

Which, only served to make you even _more_ confused. For a moment, you thought of _him_ ; you made the comparison but Ives didn’t come quite close to match. The crypticness was there; a mystery that you didn’t have all the answer to, but unlike with _him_ , you didn’t feel compel to solve Ives.

There was no familiarity with Ives – a sense of camaraderie, perhaps, but nothing more. You didn’t think much of it, but still take Ives’ recommendation to heart.)

“Let’s hope,” comes _his_ answer, accompanied by a sigh. “Thank you, Ives. For doing this – for looking out for Kat and her son for me.”

You feel your breath hitch, don’t have much time to register it before Ives is speaking again.

“As if I had a choice. I can’t exactly go around and defy direct orders from the boss now, can I?”

 _He_ chuckles at that, as if they were old friends – _actual_ old friends, not the type of inexplicable feeling trading between of you and him. “Have a good day, Ives.”

“Sir,” Ives replies, deadpan as always, before turning to leave.

You snap back to awareness as you hear his footsteps coming towards you. You stand straight up, making it as if you’re just about to round the corner – like you were _actually_ doing before their conversation interrupted your flow – and almost run into Ives. You play it up well enough that he only gives you a scorching frown, before telling you to watch your step and walking off without another glance back.

You don’t sigh out a relief but it’s a close thing. You take a moment to control your breathing, the thunderous rhythm of your heart. Your eyes shift towards his office door, and feel hesitant. Your mind is in a whirl right now – _Kat and her son; for me_ – as you know without needing to specify exactly who he was referring to.

You never did let that one mystery go, but you didn’t ask him about it either. At some point between having him in your bed and knowing that his easy, brilliant smile _is_ reserved especially for you, you decided that you didn’t care. And, well, you also forgot about it.

It never came up again – not until now, anyways – and you couldn’t find enough energy between missions and being with him, to dig up something that you’re not even sure of the answers. But, right now, there seems to be nothing else to occupy your mind but that very thing. That mystery. _Kat and her son_.

Your phone buzz in your pocket, taking you out of your momentary reverie. You take it out to find a text from him, asking if you’re there yet. _For our dinner_ , you’re reminded, and it’s enough to push that thought very far away so you can focus on right now; on your dinner with him. You force it to the forefront of your mind and hold onto its certainty like a lifeline.

He doesn’t suspect a thing, throughout dinner – candle lit, scenery beautiful as a dream that you wish you could have appreciated more – or on the way back to your flat.

You forget, for a bit, when he pushes you against the door and steals kisses from your lips. You think of nothing but him, for a moment, as he takes you into the bedroom and works you open on his fingers, slowly, methodically, as if he’s on a mission to rediscover what he’s already know of your body. You’re completely mindless, when he enters you, _slowly_ still, driving you insane with the steady rhythm, then turning you into a mess as he picks it up.

Pleasure clouds your mind, for some time, and you let it. You let _him_ , so willingly because you need it. You need the assurance he doesn’t know you’re asking for. Only...

Imagine: you’re lying on the bed next to your lover after one of the best sex you’ve ever had in your life, and you’re thinking of someone else. And not for any wrong reasons, which, somehow, makes it even worse. You hate yourself for it, for not being able to let it go. Like every other mystery you’ve come across and unable to solve, like every other thing you’ve tucked inside that box labeled with his name at the back of your mind, you just _can’t_ let it go.

So, curiosity and self-preservation swept asides, you open your mouth and ask, “Who’s Kat?”

You’re on your back, facing the ceiling, eyes searching in the half-darkness for a clue to your question. None comes to you, just like the way he isn’t answering; isn’t quite reacting beyond the uptick in his breathing. You shift your eyes to him, then, finding him watching you back.

“It wasn’t just recon, was it?” You regret the question as soon as it leaves your mouth, only for the way it lands so clumsily, so unforgivingly in the small space between you on the bed.

“No, it wasn’t,” he answers honestly. You look deep into his lovely brown eyes, to search for guilt but only come up with something akin to sorrow. Grief.

It isn’t the first time you’ve seen that look on your face – like he’s just reminded of something in a past he’s trying to forget; trying to not dig through unless he has to. You hate to be the one to ask him to do just that, but you want to know. You _need_ to know.

“Who is she, then?”

“She’s... a friend,” he answers, and the pause in it sends a jolt of something painful straight to your heart. The shift in his eyes tells you he must have recognized it, how his words – the way he said it – is affecting you. “I wish you could tell you more,” he says quietly, consolingly, “but I can’t. Not right now, at least. I’ll tell you everything when the time comes.”

It takes a moment for his words to sink in, as you watch the guilt – though not the kind you’d expected to find, coming into this conversation – swirl behind his eyes. You shift closer, almost on instinct, wanting to comfort whatever hurt he is going through – has gone through and is stuck with its residue still.

“Is it close?” you ask, wrapping an arm around him, nose almost touch his, catching the air and warmth from his body.

“Hopefully, no,” he whispers honestly, once again, in that mystic way that still leaves too many questions for you still. It would be endearing if it’s not so frustrating.

“Okay,” you reply, accepting that _this_ is enough for now. He’s The Protagonist, after all. No point in playing catch-up. Not at such a late hour and too many things still obscure between you.

“Okay,” he intones, leaning in for a kiss that you return in earnest, trading his apology for your own forgiveness. It is enough for tonight, and will be enough for the next few months to come.

One last time, imagine: the man you’re absolutely in love with, is in love with no one else but you. And, for once, you’re certain that he is.

Imagine: you’re on your way – an opening of a very, very terrible joke – to the Inversion room to partake in what you’ve been told would be your very last mission. You’ve been briefed with everything you need to know, all the cards finally turned upright so you could take a look yourself.

 _The time_ has finally come, and you understand now what he’d meant when he said he hoped that it wouldn’t so soon.

(He gave it to you in organized parts. He sat you down at the dinner table in the house you’ve bought together some months ago, and relayed the information to you; all the intel he’d gathered from his own temporal pincer movement, years ago.

Pieces started to fall into place as he went on – the things he’d sometimes let slipped, the looks, the smiles he’d given you suddenly made sense, their meanings becoming clear in your mind. When Kat and her son came up, you dreaded for it, but he eased your worries with a kiss on your knuckles.

“She’s a friend,” he said, smiling against your skin, “like I already told you. We’re going to save her, and she’s going to help us save the world. I keep an out eye for her still, to this day, because I feel we owe her that much, at least.”

Warmth rushed over your heart, as well as a sense of foolishness for ever doubting his love for you. He caught it, in the way that you shifted your eyes to the ground, and strengthened his grip on your hand. You looked up, finding nothing but affection in his eyes, and held onto him.

He continued with the rest of the information you needed to know, ending it with an assignment to you. The look in his eyes told you that he’d rather do anything but this, so you didn’t wait for him to ask you.

“I’ll do it,” you volunteered, easily, wholehearted. What’s happened, happened. You already did it for him; already left this all behind and returned to the past to save the world, and him. “I’ve already done it. You can count on me.”

He bit his lip, didn’t tell you that that wasn’t the point, and you didn’t ask him to. Instead, you pulled him close, planting a kiss atop his hair, down to his forehead, his temple, his eyelids, his nose, and his lips – anywhere you can reach, really. You’ve got one week left before you leave, so you planned to make the best of it.)

He’s there to send you away, even though you said that he didn’t have to. He insisted still, telling you that of course, he would be there, it’s his favorite agent’s last mission, after all. A few months prior and you wouldn’t think much of that, would tuck it away in that box labeled with his name at the back of your mind, another mystery you would have to come back to.

Only, you know better now, and the _I love you_ and _I’m sorry_ were just as loud as his spoken words.

You stand by his side as you wait for the rest of your team to get into position. You don’t say anything, and he doesn’t prompt the silence away. For a moment, you’re both deep in your own thoughts, so many things to say but not enough times – or even enough words – to say it. In the end, Wheeler comes for you, telling you it’s time to leave.

“Here,” he says, finally, as Wheeler leaves to return to her position. You look at him, finding a small trinket in his hand – red string tied to a coin.

“What is it?” you ask, as he takes your backpack and begins to wrap the trinket around the key on the front’s zipper.

“For good luck,” he says, with a small smile on his lips. You can’t tell if the sadness in his eyes is because he’s sending you away towards a certain end, or because of that residue pain that’s still so stubbornly clinging to him. You don’t mention it, either way; instead mirroring his smile with one of your own.

Still, the red-colored string is too eye-catching, too noticeable against the camouflage of your backpack. It’s a security risk, you and him both know it, so you have to ask. “You sure this is okay?”

“It’s coming from me so yes, Neil, it is okay,” he responds, with a small laugh in his voice. You don’t question it further, grateful that he allows you to bring this small part of himself with you.

The short walk into the turnstile might be the hardest thing you ever do. You say your goodbyes, and then you walk away. You don’t turn around, because you don’t know what you’d do if you see his face, the look in his eyes, the smile that will be there but not quite the right kind that you love so much.

The turnstile spins, stops, and as it turns out, the person in charge of the past’s end of this mission is none other than Ives. You have to take a moment to reorient yourself – feeling like a fledging on his first inverted mission – as no recognition appears on Ives’ face. You realize, then, that this must be what it’s felt like for the other Ives, for _him_ , to encounter you for the first (second) time.

“Hey, just so you know,” you can’t help yourself from saying, as you walk by Ives’ side towards the transporting ship to Ukraine, “I’m a pretty good locksmith.”

The dumbfounded look on Ives’ face is as unfamiliar as it is hilarious. You don’t try to suppress your laugh, even with the glare he’s pinning on you. It feels good, actually, to be the one in the know, for once; the one who holds all the cards while others have to do the guessing work.

The good feeling keeps you going through the years in inversion. You don't see him again – it's too much of a risk, and you don't have the time between running temporal pincer movements for other Tenet teams, and getting the new recruits used to life in Inversion. You barely have a moment to yourself, these days, but you find solace in it – as he must have planned for you. There is no paper trails for the missions you were assigned to help on, but the orders always came _from the boss_ – according to Ives – and you know what that means. Even without seeing him, hearing his voice, you can still hear his love loud and clear – allowing you this distraction from all the heartbreak you still haven't been able to bring yourself to work through.

By the time for your final – your very _final_ – mission comes, you've run completely dry on... just about anything really. You're so very tired that you could barely care when it was time to go; time to suit up and infiltrate that opera house like you're always meant to do.

Seeing him again was both a relief and a torture. He was so close, but there wasn't time for reuinion – won't be time anywhere at this point in time, for that matter. You can only take what you've been giving: a first meeting with him. You miss him beyond what words can describe, and it takes all of your self-control, all of your self-preservation, to not say as much. You just sit across from him in that yacht club and pretend to be a total stranger, lamenting silently on how cruel reality can be sometimes.

Still, a few things slip from your tongue before you can think about it. Instinct, you think, as you understand now. You wonder if he’d keep those things in a box labeled with your name at the back of his mind, to visit and tinker with later when he has the free time, like you’ve done so with him, whenever he’d allow – on instinct, you’re sure – the private, more personal parts of his life to slip out in your presence.

You smile to yourself as you follow him out of the yacht club, taking the next step in the mission briefing you’ve got ingrained to your being. You bite down on your feelings, on the throbbing of your heart and you make it through every part as directed by _him_.

It’s just unfortunate that the first time you see Kat, in real life and not through the files you’ve been given about her, she’s part-way to unconsciousness on a stretcher, while he’s angry at you for withholding information. It’d be ironic, and a bit unfair, if _this_ him knew how you’d felt like before all of this, but instead, it just feels painful. Like everything else in this entire mission.

Still, you pull through until the very last moment, and—

Imagine, for old time’s sake: you’re on your way towards the very end – of this mission, of your own life – and you have to say goodbye to him. Again.

Ives have threatened to kill you all, and you would laugh if not for how tragic this story is going to end for you. You keep a smile on your face still, as you watch Ives take his leave.

Finally, you turn to _him_ , and with experience of the last time still fresh in your mind (just _fourteen_ days ago), you start out your goodbye with something light.

“You’re not going to London to check on Kat, are you?” you ask, hands fidgeting with the piece of the algorithm you’re holding to your chest.

“No, it’s far too dangerous,” he replies, his face a mask of neutrality. _Lying is standard operating procedure,_ he told you once, and he’s really living up to his word.

“Even from afar?” you press, smile slipping slightly from your lips as you recognize the beginning of a very long pattern for him.

You shift your gaze from the algorithm, then back to him, and his smile then is so familiar that it makes your heart jump. “Even from afar,” he confirms, knowing full well that you can see right through him.

You let it go, this time, _finally_ , because this is no longer a mystery to you. Nothing about him is anymore. You turn and call for Ives, asking him about that door that only you could open. Ives doesn’t miss a beat on his reply, knowing full well the answer you’re looking for and giving it to you easily. The very last push you need to leave _him_ behind.

When he calls for you, though, and you have to choke down on all of your feelings and give him the speech he needs to hear.

“Now let me go,” you conclude with a small smile, the last push _he_ needs to, well, let you go.

He does so with so many questions, though, holding you back for as long as he could, and you allow him. You realize as you give him promises about the future that he must have been in love with you much longer than you are with him. You wonder if it’s right now, with the tears stuck in his lovely brown eyes that you can still catch through the distance, or much later, when he meets you again in the future.

You don’t need the confirmation, either way; you just know deep in your heart that it’s true. Undeniable as reality itself. You smile to yourself as you board the chopper, sitting across from Ives who gives you a contrite look that you ignore. You know what’s waiting for you down in that hypocenter. It doesn’t matter, though, because you know who you’re doing it for.

(The world, everything else, just takes second place against the man of your life.)

**Author's Note:**

> there's a few references to my ramblings on my [protagoneil blog](https://iamtheprotagoneil.tumblr.com/) that i've sprinkled here and there in the fic. if you know, you know ;)
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are much appreciated. honestly, i read and check each one; y'all are so precious to me <3


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